


The Shape Of Things To Come

by ClementineStarling



Series: ... and the Devil walks with Him [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/F, M/M, Magic is Real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4729037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-canon: The New Regime encourages all kinds of depravity, it appears. ;)</p><p>Another collection of loosely connected one-shots, I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corruption

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why, but B/C makes me throw all usual reservations overboard - established relationships are boring? fluff is not my cup of tea? why bother with fem!slash when all penis-envy can be cured with raw amounts of male!slash? all obsolete opinions!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Irene are summoned to Blackwood's new residence, because Coward wants to brag and... other reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have to admit, a lot of my sudden love for Irene and Mary comes from watching season 2 of True Detective, and I'm kind of glad, those eight hours of my life were not entirely wasted.
> 
> However, as of chapter one (no idea if there's more to come... I'll have to see how my obsession develops) - if you're looking for some B/C-action, jump to the next chapter resp. the next part of this series. This is about the ladies!

On the surface, things are not so different. Not after the panic has settled and the riots have been crushed. Certainly, where once stood the Palace of Westminster there remain but charred ruins that keep smouldering for weeks, serving as a constant reminder of the new regime, and true, some old faces are replaced with new ones, some government officials exchanged for others – but apart from that, much stays the same. The empire still stands, and everyone still abides by its rules and laws, close enough at least that for the common people nothing really changes. The queen is still the queen (even if only by name), Coward is still Home Secretary – and Blackwood, well, he might be the King of Britain in all but name, yet he satisfies himself with the title of Prime Minister.

Beneath the shell of normalcy though, there is a darkness spilling into the world, ink-black and ghastly, and unspeakable terrors begin to haunt the nights, the spectres of things long forgotten. The most unsettling news reach them from the colonies; they tell of unfathomable beasts, horrors made flesh, and of the Great Old Ones arising to walk the earth again. 

And the night-dwellers are flocking to them, just as expected, alchemists and apothecaries, soothsayers and sorcerers, conjurers and necromancers, all of them humbly offering their services; the witches come last, clad in dazzling beauty to disguise their wickedness, so powerful and ruthless, Coward's breath catches in his chest, and he is filled with a queer, almost frenzied kind of desire that makes Blackwood laugh, then etch another glyph of protection into his skin.

After the human practitioners the other beings begin to crawl out of their holes and caves, wary of Blackwood's powers and sceptical about his good-will. They are only too aware, that he could squash them like bugs if he wanted, and they are eager to pledge their allegiance, and they are lucky Blackwood's attention is still focussed on the Order, on social hierarchy, in short ordinary humans, to care much about their existence. 

Un coup d'état, as it turns out, is not completed once the government is overthrown, but only when every last conspirator against the new order is captured, and every last sceptic convinced of its inevitability. It is still a long way to go, Coward realises. Part of the process is dispossession of their former opponents and redistribution of their wealth, divesting offices and land and property to reward their followers.

They have also seized things for themselves – nothing excessive of course, only the means to maintain certain standards, standards that now are expected of them. The ruler of a land cannot possibly reside in a simple town house, can he? So Blackwood let Coward have his pick among the eligible residences, and he chose well. The gardens are lovely and the rooms will do just fine, once they are stripped not only off their former inhabitants but also from the clutter of centuries.

“I shall not live in a museum”, Blackwood stated, and Coward has given clear instructions to the people entrusted with redecoration to use only the latest styles and fashions, although he has also warned them against the exuberant friskiness of the Art Nouveau. “Imagine this house as a symbol for our great country, old and venerable, yet to be filled with a bright future, progressive ideas, advanced thought, magnificent craftsmanship, modern art, innovation--” when he saw their blank faces, he added in exasperation “Well, you will work it out” and left the room, the threatening “or else” unspoken, though there was no doubt, everyone involved was aware of the consequences of failure.

So far their efforts have been quite satisfactory though, even Henry gives a sort of pleased hum at the sight of the newly installed Blue Salon, the weight of his hand approving against the small of Coward's back. 

“We should have guests for tea”, Coward suggests, leaning ever so slightly into Blackwood's touch. 

“Guests?” The frown is audible in Blackwood's voice.

“Do you not think our home too pretty to go unnoticed?”

“Do you not think it improper to brag?” The frown has twisted itself into wry amusement, the voice dropped to those sinful depths that never fail to stir a breathless, unfathomable want in him, the desire to be devoured utterly by Blackwood's passion.

Coward cannot help but laugh, the glee in his heart too exuberant to contain, everything is simply too perfect. 

“Very well then”, Blackwood accedes, “Whom do you have in mind?” 

“I would love to invite Holmes and his good doctor. But since they appear to have vanished without a trace, we might have to content ourselves with their women.” Coward turns and smiles, and his expression betrays almost every depraved detail of his plan, and Blackwood kisses him passionately for it. 

“Tell me all about it”, he says as he begins to loosen Coward's cravat and unbuttons his waistcoat, and Coward know he has to hurry, for soon he will not be able to hold a coherent thought in his mind, much less express it. 

__

They come when they're summoned, as of course they must; the guards sent to fetch them leave little doubt about the inevitability of the invitation, even though they are under strict orders to be as civilised as the circumstances allow. And both of them are too smart not to come quietly, though their respective demeanour is as different as day and night – while Mary Morstan is a bundle of nerves, pale and transparent, her ashen complexion emphasised by a bleak mauve dress, that somehow reminds Coward of a burial shroud, Irene Adler is a picture of composure, from the slightly defiant tilt of her head, to the pride in her posture, to the remarkable certainty of her step – nothing in her bearing betrays fear. She just twists her cherry lips into a smile that could be entirely genuine or almost mocking, and curtsies scarcely enough not to be openly disrespectful. 

Blackwood hardly spares Mary a second glance – he has no patience for her kind of anxiousness, is too prone to hard words and rash reactions, and they have agreed to proceed with caution, no need for threats or even violence. So while Blackwood asks Irene to accompany him to the gardens, it falls to Coward to bow courteously and take Mary's arm and lead her to the sofa in the newly finished salon, offer her the delicious little cakes the kitchen prepared and finest tea from the colonies.

She is too afraid to decline, but her hand shakes so much, she nearly spills her tea, and it is obvious that she bites her full, rose petal lip to stop it from trembling. In her plain, timid way she is delectable, Coward finds and he wonders whether the good doctor has ever had the chance to taste her sweetness. They could have been married in secret, or perhaps not bothered at all with such dispensable decorum, but Coward doubts it. Something about her exudes the bashfulness of maidenhood, the barely hidden fear of the unknown, he can almost smell it on her, an exquisite, enticing fragrance, and oh so valuable, for innocence can be so easily lost. 

Coward studies how she lowers her eyes and folds her hands in her lap, once she set the saucer back on the table, another desperate attempt to uphold the illusion of composure. 

He reaches for her hand, that is cold even through the glove. “Do you like it?”, he asks in what easily could have been mistaken for kindness, had he not leant in closer, too close to be in any way appropriate, and she blushes, a colouring that does not manage to cover up the chalky pallor of her face. “The tea, I mean”, he adds, to underline the other insinuation.

“It is very fine”, she breathes, and by all Gods, she is as dainty as paper and as easily torn by wolves like him. He strokes her wrist through the fabric, soothing circles of his thumb, a touch that is outrageously unseemly.

“You've certainly wondered why you were called here, Miss Morstan” - the doe-eyed glance she throws him is priceless - “I can assure you, that we mean no harm. Au contraire. We are still very much inconsolable about the disappearance of your fiancé. We had such high hopes for him and Mr Holmes. We expected them to see reason and join our cause. It is, after all, the rational thing to do. Also the Order is always in need of brilliant men, and there are arguable few men in this country more brilliant than Dr. Watson and Mr Holmes.” 

She nods, understands very well that she is bait, though she cannot do anything about it. 

“So if you knew anything about the whereabouts of your dear doctor, you would certainly tell us, wouldn't you?”

She nods again, her eyes dewy with unshed tears. Coward gives her a radiant smile and lets go of her hand. 

“You must try these marvellous canelés”, he says, waving that self-same hand over the bountifully laid table. “Or perhaps one of the tartelettes aux fruit, elles sont magnifiques.”

__

The air in the greenhouse is stifling, within minutes sweat is erupting on Irene's skin, the dampness is gathering on her temples, in her nape and small beads have begun to run down her back in an almost sensual manner. Her winter dress is certainly not made for this kind of temperature. Blackwood on the other hand appears quite at ease, judging from the utterly satisfied expression he wears, as he looks at his realm of tropical flowers.

“I do miss it sometimes, the heat of the colonies, the caress of humid jungle air or the acute sting of the sun”, he says conversationally as he turns and guides her to a small table, laid out for tea. Its offerings are a lot less opulent than the range of cake and tartes and niblets served in the Blue Salon, and consist mostly of sandwiches, but there are also olives and dates, figs and roasted nuts. In addition to tea, the footman serves mocha in tiny cups.

“As I understand it you are a well-travelled woman, Miss Adler?”, he says when they are both seated and the coffee has been poured.

Irene inclines her head and curls her lips into another one of her half-smiles.  
“Is this why you invited me, Lord Blackwood? To reminiscence about the Orient?”  
She bats her lashes, winds a strand of hair absent-mindedly around her finger. She knows, how she looks almost doll-like with her porcelain teint, her beady eyes and the perfectly coiffed curls, and she also knows, Blackwood is unlikely to fall for this act.

And indeed, he clicks his tongue impatiently and sets down the cup into the saucer, and both on the table. There is no humour in his gaze, when he answers. “I think you are an extraordinary person, a woman of the future, resourceful, resilient, determined, clever – and the new world needs women like you. That is why I invited you.”

It is not what she has expected (barely concealed threats, blackmail, coercion). Not at all. It may only be flattery, a ruse, telling her what she wants to hear so she will be all pliant, but nevertheless, it strikes a nerve.  
“I would have never taken you for a secret feminist”, she jokes, still very much in her flirty persona, even though she senses it won't take him much to peel this mask off her and reveal what's underneath. And not even she is sure what he would find.

“You mean because I'm famous for slaughtering beautiful young women?”

The honesty is brutal, and now the threat underlying this encounter is palpable.  
Irene nearly chokes on her coffee. Somewhere inside her guts the fear must be clawing its way up to the surface; it feels as if she is going to be sick. 

His face is still calm, his eyes sharp as needle-pins as he examines her reaction.  
“Do not mistake my intentions, Miss Adler”, he adds, “I am not looking for redemption. I do not regret what I have done. I simply consider you a useful ally, and I can assure you that a business relation with the Order will be more worthwhile than your arrangement with Moriarty.”

When she flinches at the name, he smiles for the first time. It makes him appear almost human. 

“I hope your stay here will convince you of the expedience of our cause – not only of the rightfulness of our objectives, but also that our goals will ultimately serve your own. I can give you influence, independence, agency beyond anything you could ever dream to achieve. All I shall ask in return is your cooperation, a compliance in certain matters I must attend to...”

His voice has become dark with promise and against all resolutions she finds herself listening. It is not that she isn't at heart a practical woman.

__

Their accommodations are more than suitable for the both of them; nothing about them conveys the slightest notion of the involuntary nature of their visit, that they are not honoured guests in this house but hostages. They have set aside a suite of rooms for them, magnificent rooms flooded with the late afternoon light and tastefully furnished, the interiors distinctly less austere than the other areas of the palace. There is a playfulness to the decoration that infers a female touch.

In any other situation Mary would have marvelled at its grandeur, but not now that the fear is fluttering inside her chest like a caged bird. As soon as they are alone, she sinks on the chaise longue, as though all strength has left her.  
“Oh Irene, if you had seen how he touched me – so unlike a gentleman – it made my skin crawl. I don't know, what if he...” Overtaken by sobs, she is unable to go on, she presses her handkerchief to her face, the stream of tears won't stop, even though she is almost too exhausted to cry anymore.

“Give me your hand, Mary”, Irene says, kneeling beside her, squeezing the hand tight with her clever pickpocket-fingers. “Look at me, look at me.” And Mary can't help but obey. Irene's eyes are warm and steady, and some of her strength seems to seep into Mary, just enough to calm her breathing and her racing pulse. “I promise you, we will get through this. Do you understand?”, Irene says, and for one glorious moment Mary feels almost reassured, and she nods.

“Compromises may be necessary to survive”, Irene goes on, “but I know we can make it.”

“What do you mean? Surely you can't--”, Mary stammers, her lower lip trembling treacherously. The memory of Coward's touch is still itching under her skin, and she can't bear the thought of having to endure it again, or even worse--

Irene sighs heavily, before she gets to her feet and walks over to the serving cart next to the tall window. Its contents include – apart from a bowl of fruit, a plate of small cakes and chocolates, and a pot of tea – a couple of crystal decanters filled with clear and amber liquids. Irene takes the stopper out of one bottle, sniffs it and obviously content with her findings, pours them two generous helpings of brandy. When she returns, she hands one of the glasses to Mary. “Drink”, she says and puts her own glass to her lips, gulping the spirit down like water, and Mary follows her example. The brandy is smooth and warm and almost sweet, and she feels already a little bit better, when she sets the glass down.

“Listen to me, Mary. What is important now is that you keep your head. Whatever happens. Stay calm. Don't fret. Don't fight. Do you think you can do that?”

Mary nods again, the set of her jaw determined this time.

Irene hesitates before she goes on. “There might be the possibility that Lord Coward, since he already seemed to have indicated interest, that he... you know.” She stops, obviously lacking an expression that will not make the whole affair appear even more brutal.

Mary pales at the words, but doesn't start to cry. The brandy-induced bravery already works its magic.

“So, what I must know is, did John... have you... or anyone else?”

Mary just shakes her head at all the implied questions, and feels terribly ignorant, as Irene sighs again. “I'm so sorry, Mary”, she says. “It would be so much easier, if you already...” She seems to reconsider her words, then straightens visibly. “It doesn't matter. We will have to work with what we have. Don't you worry, Mary, I shall explain. But first we will have another drink.”

The second brandy loosens something inside Mary, as though a secret courage has been unleashed.  
This time it is her reaching for Irene's hand, leaning closer. She draws the same circles over her wrist, thumb rubbing over the pulse point, the bones delicate under the tender skin, and Irene looks rather strangely at her.

“Just like this”, Mary murmurs, “do you see, Irene?”  
But Irene is suddenly so very, very close, and not at all looking at the wrist, but straight at her, and Mary can smell the brandy on her breath, see the luscious curve of her lip, as if for the very first time, and then this lovely, sweet mouth is on her own, pressing for entrance, and Mary finds herself yielding. She knows kissing and she likes it, has spent countless hours allowing John to kiss her – if not anything else – and he eased her into it, with chaste brushes of lips at first, then mouths opening, nipping and biting, and then, finally, tongues slipping against each other, warm and slick and promising. John grew never tired of it and neither did she, and only sometimes, when they had difficulties breaking away from each other, and sat back, panting, the curious warmth slithering inside their bellies, and the same longing mirrored in their eyes, she did regret the rules of society that forbade them to go on, be even more intimate. But for all John's impatience, he would never have pushed her, never have demanded... 

She has started to cry again, she can taste the salt of her own tears on Irene's lips, who only breathes endearments between kisses -- “Hush, darling, don't cry, everything will be all right” -- and then continues kissing her, until there is nothing else on her mind than the way Irene's mouth moves against hers, the enticing stroke of her tongue, challenging to chase and discover, and it's so different from the way, John used to kiss her. There is more room for her own preferences, she learns; Irene lets her vary the depths of the kiss, and the pace, responds to every small indication of change, reflects just perfectly every one of Mary's desires, their tune becomes flawless, and the familiar warmth unfurls in the pit of Mary's stomach, and after a while she finds her hands travelling, exploring, sliding against the dip of Irene's waist, the long pale line of her neck, and she cannot stop touching.

“I could show you”, Irene whispers in between kisses “if you allowed...”, and her hands, too, begin to run over Mary's face and throat and shoulders, her arms and her sides and her back, and every stroke is kindling the warmth inside Mary into a blazing fire, and she nods and murmurs her consent against Irene's lips, and then the kiss changes again, into a hungry, passionate thing, and their hands become greedy. Afterwards Mary has no idea, how Irene got them entangled from their many layers of clothing so swiftly, but soon they are rid of their bodices and corsets, skirts and petticoats, and only the thin shifts of fine muslin remain between them, and those can scarcely be regarded as clothes, yet they grant Mary at least the notion of propriety. And idea as flimsy as the fabric, but still...

Still it is something between Mary's skin and the brand of Irene's palm, as it cups the fullness of her breast, its sensitive bud eager to rise to the touch, and the caress feeds into the heat twisting through her veins like the paradisical snake, settling, pooling between her legs, and she can't help but moan at the sensation, and she feels Irene's lips curl against her skin in a satisfied smile.

She never knew, it would feel so good, to be touched – much less by the expert hands of another woman, but now she is unravelling under Irene's fingers that are lifting her chemise, trailing upwards the softness of her thighs, spreading her open, and her thoughts fray entirely as Irene's breath is caressing her most intimate parts.

“Surely this cannot--”, she tries to object, but Irene just glances up at her from between her legs, her eyes positively glowing with mischief. “Don't think, darling, enjoy”, and she lowers her mouth onto this tender flesh, that yearns to be kissed and licked and devoured, and Mary is melting against it, and yet a part of her tightens, tenses under Irene's tongue, unspeakable pleasure, a winding spring. 

Fingers trace that sensation through the dampness of her sex, spreading her lust, smearing it all over her, so dirty and sinful, and then one finger slips inside her, and another, rubbing against her insides in the most maddening manner, filling a void whose existence Mary just has realised, a ravenous emptiness, while the tip of Irene's tongue keeps circling that little knot of nerve endings, over and over and over, until sparks dance over Mary's thighs, and for one moment she feels like flying. Her whole body arches into that tidal wave of pleasure, that is followed by smaller billows, so sweet and so cruel.

Irene holds her afterwards, kissing her temples and whispering the loveliest nonsense, and in her arms, for the first time in months, Mary feels safe and snug and loved.

__

Dinner is not nearly as tense an affair as tea. Perhaps due to the amount of brandy coursing through her veins, and probably the calming effect of sexual fulfilment, Mary has lost her skittish demeanour and seems so much at ease, Coward compliments her on the radiance of her appearance, which makes her blush terribly, though this time in a glowing, healthy way that suits her perfectly. And if she had been the tiniest bit schooled in the art of observation, she would have seen the downright dirty smugness of Coward's expression, and also Blackwood's appreciative nod towards Irene.

But as it is, she only takes her seat at the dinner table and to her astonishment finds herself ravenous.

The meal is served in a small dining parlour, at a round table that seats only four people, in an almost intimate atmosphere. The food is exquisite and there are several more courses that even an exclusive restaurant might serve for dinner, but somehow the scene exudes a strange air of everyday life. 

“Thomas Hardy has written a new novel”, Coward remarks over the second course, with one of his sardonic smiles, that make him look like the devil himself. “A critique of contemporary morals. It tells the tragic fate of a young woman who is punished for an indiscretion, she did not even consent to, a moral lapse that was forced upon her. It is set to be published in The Graphic, the first part to come out in July. The publisher just handed in a copy for censorship, but I don't think it will serve our cause, if allow the usual things to be expurgated.”

Blackwood sets down his knife and fork and reaches for the wine glass. “Perhaps you could procure a copy for our charming guests. It is about time to involve women in the debate about their moral condemnation”, he says. “The new regime cannot condone Christian fanatics and reactionary prudes standing in the way of our bright future.”

“A toast to that”, Coward suggests and raises his glass. “Speaking of ridiculous moralising: Do you remember our recent visit to the music hall, and the girls' act that everyone seemed to love? Two girls dressing up in men's clothes.”

“How could I forget that?” Blackwood smiles almost fondly at the memory.

“Now some outrage appears to have arisen in certain circles, accusing them of being lesbians.”  
As if by accident, his iridescent eyes meet Mary's, and she lowers her gaze, blushing furiously. 

“How utterly shocking”, Blackwood comments in a tone that is equally bored and ironic, and Mary has the distinct feeling, he is also looking at her.

“I think it is a rather lovely thought”, Coward continues. “Imagining them together. How knowingly they would touch each other with their delicate fingers and soft lips, invoking the most delightful ripples of pleasure. I would love to watch.” Mary's eyes flick upwards to confirm he is still staring at her, the lewdness of his smile displaying his intent without a shred of doubt.

“Perhaps we should invite them”, Blackwood says, “I fancy such a visit to be rather educational, don't you think, Miss Morstan?”

His gaze is even harder to bear than Coward's, but is not until Mary glances at Irene seeking help or at least guidance, and finds her avoiding her eyes, that she understands the extent of her betrayal.

__

tbc?


	2. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Italian artist/alchemist is besotted with Coward, and Blackwood allows him this folly for a while. Until he doesn't. 
> 
> aka Plot? Muahaha, what plot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Breyito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breyito), who gave me [this very detailed prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4728974/comments/38711198) (attention: spoilers) – I hope you like it. :)  
> I dispensed with a lot of credibility for the sake of porn; a reason that justifies all means.  
> It's in the middle of the night, I just finished this and I seriously hope it's not riddled with mistakes, but I want to get it out there right now before I reconsider. (Yeah, I know, embarrassment is for beginners, but still... *blushes*)

If the New Order is anything, then laborious, never-ending, tiresome, hard work. Certain jokes are made about the Sisyphosian nature of their efforts. And when Coward comes home late, exhausted and bone-tired, Blackwood comes home even later, often after Coward has already fallen asleep, and gets up before he wakes again.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you avoid me”, Coward says one evening, the hour already leaning towards midnight when Blackwood arrives, followed by his guards carrying armfuls of paperwork into the study, obviously still not done with his duties, and he can't help the reproach stealing itself into his words.

But Blackwood only looks at him in a way, that makes him fall silent at once.

“I expected we'd work together more often”, Coward says another time. He has realised he does not even know what Blackwood does all day long, while he is issuing warrants, listening to reports, worrying about conspiracies and plots and other matters of national security. 

And again he receives that strange, silencing look.

“I need you where you are”, Blackwood says, a sharp undercurrent in his voice, “I thought I made that perfectly clear.”

He speaks as the sovereign in these moments, not as his lover, and Coward would be wise to act accordingly, just nod and accept his command. But then he cannot help the nagging sense of disappointment at the prosaic reality of their rule. He imagined it quite differently, more glamorous, more exciting, pictured himself at Henry's side, always, because that's where he belongs, attending state ceremonies together and festivities, cultural events, and all kinds of historic moments. Instead he sleeps mostly alone in a too large, too cold, too empty bed, and goes to work every morning, to the same office on Parliament Street (or sometimes the Yard, if necessary), and the same chores and tasks as before their coup d'état, the only difference being that his responsibilities have tripled, and he is lucky to get away in time for a late dinner. 

The months go by and the lack of a social life becomes more and more nerve-stretching, a constant source of frustration, with the regular order meetings nearly the only kind of relief from the monotony, Coward is allowed. At least the only variation that includes Blackwood. 

The Order gathers, just like they used to, late at night, almost in secret: an exclusive club of powerful men, more of a political party than a magic circle, discussing the future of their great land, scheming, plotting, non-mundane events (like rituals and summonings) are rare, and although they'd be keen on learning, Blackwood, as before, shares little of his craft. But there are others, less in need of such aid, true practitioners in their own right, arriving from all over the country, even from abroad. And their ranks are swelling with new acolytes, some of them young, a few even pretty, and Coward would never admit it, but they are what he longs for, he yearns for an audience.

It has become a custom for order members, after the official part of their meeting, to kneel and kiss Blackwood's hand, his ring to be precise, in an act of allegiance, and for Coward it is the perfect opportunity to demonstrate his devotion, a stage set up especially for him. 

He makes sure, everyone notices how he kneels, a fallen angel at the feet of his lord, his hair always a little too tousled, his lips a little too wet to look entirely innocent. He wants them to see how his eyes gleam in adoration, how breathless he is when he presses his lips to Blackwood's hand, open-mouthed, how they linger unseemly long.

Blackwood stares at him then, dark eyes blank, expressionless, his mouth a thin line that does not curl nor twist, but he does not slap him either, as he has done with others attempting such intimacy. He tolerates his affection, that is all. Once this would have been more, than Coward could have hoped for, but these times are long gone.

“You realise you're not doing yourself a service, Daniel”, Blackwood whispers one night, after a particularly inappropriate kiss, that prompted him to raise Coward to his feet in a most gracious gesture to put an end to his indecent display of worship, stepping closer than he's ever done in public, the damp heat of his breath almost sensual against Coward's cheek. It's not really a question, and Coward flinches. Blushes. Bites his tongue.

“I thought we would not abide such folly”, he responds in a low tone, “I thought we were to tear down these childish morals. Liberate us from the fetters of propriety. Are you really afraid of their judgement, Henry?”

And like so often in recent weeks Blackwood keeps silent for a while too long to bode well. It the kind of quiet before a storm, that is merely betrayed by a vein pulsing in his temple and a certain tension in the jaw. Blackwood is a master of self-control, if he cares to apply the effort. 

“Sometimes I do wonder, Daniel, how for all your brilliance you can be so blind.” He speaks slowly, softly, the exertion to stay calm palpable in his deep voice. “It is not about myself that I worry. I could fuck pigs in Trafalgar Square and no one would dare point a finger. But your position is... different. Have not you yourself lectured me once on the pitfalls and perfidy of Greek _paiderastia_? I need you to be perceived as my right hand, my second in command, not my wife, or my toy. I cannot have you flaunt yourself as my catamite, it will undermine everything we have worked for. Do you understand?”

He does not wait for his answer, but takes a step back, and the people immediately crowd around him like sheep, putting an insurmountable wall between them.

And Coward realises how furious he is about the admonishment, how absolutely livid. Deep down he knows of course, Blackwood is right. The world does not change overnight. But would it not be an objective worth fighting for, to have him at his side, as his lover and as his equal?

“For a moment there, I thought he would kiss you”, someone says beside him, a foreign accent thick, almost sensual in his voice, “I know I would have, if I had been in his place.”

Coward whips around, startled, and looks straight into large eyes of a rich amber, smooth like sunshine in finest brandy. The rest of the man is every bit as dashing, from the set of gleaming teeth, he bares in a most fetching smile, to the even features of his face, the dark hair and satin-skin. He is very elegantly clothed, and from what Coward can make out through the many layers of his attire, lean and wiry of body. Someone he would not mind kissing, not at all.

“I hope you forgive my frankness”, the man says, “È impossibile non essere affascinati dalla vostra bellezza. You made for such a breath-taking picture in your devotion, I could not help a touch of envy. If there is something I cannot resist, it is beauty. Would you perhaps do me the honour of sitting for me? I would love to capture your grace on canvas, if you allowed...”

“Per favore”, he adds when he sees Coward's sceptical expression. 

“So you're an artist, sir?”, Coward asks, quickly hiding his thoughts by his usual mask of charming politeness.

“Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino”, he introduces himself, “Painter turned alchemist. A true renaissance man you could say. They call me Raphael.” He smiles this dazzling smile again. 

“Lord Coward, Home Secretary”, Coward says with the inexplicable urge to add his first name, and stops himself just in time. 

“Lord Coward”, Raphael says, while reaching for his hand in a gesture of strange familiarity – it must be an Italian custom to be so casual, Coward supposes - “if I may be so bold-- you must tell me everything about the story of England's success. How you managed to propel your great country into the future, when the rest of Europe is so hopelessly behind time. We in Italy hope to learn so much from you.”

And how could Coward deny him such a charming request?

__

Coward thrives in the attentions of his new admirer, who sends him notes, flowers, all sorts of gifts, small and beautiful things, which are also strange and exotic, and make Blackwood raise an eyebrow more than once. But Coward just beams at him and says “Raphael” as if this was a proper explanation, and Blackwood can't reprimand him for his happiness. It does suit him so much better than the permanent pout. And where should be the harm in establishing a good standing with foreign allies?

It also takes some of the social duties off him, he has felt obliged to fulfil, for Coward's sake at least, especially those he has always found a nuisance. Blackwood hates the opera, for example, all the singing causes him a terrible headache, and he used to go there merely in order to cultivate his colourful persona, stage a new scandal, have his cock sucked in the secrecy of his loge, something like that. But now he has no need for petty drama anymore, no time to kill. Coward, however, is a social thing, a flower that withers and dies without the diamond-glitter of chandeliers and the endless reflection of ball-room-mirrors; he needs the chatter and gossip and attractions of society, the dinners, soirées, the admiring, even envious glances, but also the entertainment of the fine arts. 

So Blackwood decides to let him bask in Raphael's affection for a while, allows the man to take Coward out, to the opera, the theatre, whatever Coward fancies. And he watches their increasing familiarity, at first with an amused quirk of his lips, that could be almost a smile, later with clenched teeth, as he observes how the Italian's touches grow bolder, from casual brushes to lingering hands to actual caresses, soon too forward, so blatant in their intention, he makes Coward blush and laugh nervously, and yet he does not stop. Blackwood doesn't fail to notice how his fingers graze against Coward's neck in pursuit of a loose strand of hair, and he know it is not accidental how they trail over the smooth stretch of skin. 

There is something inside him, that hardens at the sight, tenses, something that will eventually snap, and his teeth begin to feel like fangs, ready to be bared in a gesture of dominance, ready to sink into flesh if necessary. But instead of rebuking his guest for the impertinence of his behaviour, or cautioning Coward explicitly against the foolishness of his indulgence, he only smiles, very politely, too politely perhaps, though Coward must have picked up on his change in temper, he knows him well enough, yet nothing changes.

Weeks pass, and Blackwood's patience grows thin.

There comes the day, he is supposed to give a dinner party. One has to bother with such things from time to time, and at least Coward will be delighted.

The evening goes well enough, the guests are pleasant, the conversation witty, the women pretty and the drink plentiful. Everything could be perfect, were it not for the nerve-racking behaviour of the Italian, who can't keep his greedy fingers off Coward, looks at him, as if he wants to devour him, and Coward only blushes, giggles like an embarrassed maiden, and this is so outrageously out of character, so overtly flirty, a cold fury begins to simmer beneath the calm of Blackwood's demeanour, and his fingers grip his glass so tight, the bones shine white through the skin.

Past midnight, when the respectable guests have left, and the remainder of the party slowly descends into an alcohol-induced state of semiconsciousness, the sweet plumes of opium sluggish in the air, and drug-heavy limbs twining languidly into each other, all modesty forgotten, he realises he has lost sight of Coward, and the Italian has disappeared, too.

As it turns out they have not gone far, which is something that only adds to his unfurling wrath: he finds them scarcely hidden by a curtain in the corridor. Raphael has Coward crowded against a wall, his mouth fastened to Coward's neck, obviously biting at him quite fiercely, gathering from the way Coward shivers and how his hands are braced against Raphael's chest, trying to push him away, and the low objections of _no_ , and _stop_ , and _please_ , and yet he only sucks harder, and oh the audacity of him, not only to take what does not belong to him, but also to dare leave his mark.

Blackwood is upon him in a couple of long strides, grasps him by the collar like a badly behaved dog and hurls him to the floor, then backhanding him so fiercely, his lip splits and he is so stunned, Blackwood is able to drag him along like a broken doll, unresisting and dazed, as he is ushering Coward towards his bedroom.

He kicks an armchair in front of the bed and lets Raphael slump onto it like a sack of potatoes, before turning his attention to Coward.

“You!”, he growls, “What were you thinking, letting him touch you like that, and almost in public!”

“I'm sorry”, Coward splutters, “it's not that I exactly gave him permission, he just...” 

“What did you expect, after leading him on for weeks and weeks?”

“So you agree, I'm not entirely responsible for my actions”, Raphael mutters from behind him, and Blackwood whips around and slaps him again, hard.

“I was not talking to you, you insolent little fool. How dare you raise your voice? Don't you think, I shan't deal with you later.” He snaps his fingers and ropes of golden light come slithering out of thin air, twisting themselves around Raphael's limbs, tying him to his chair. Blackwood does not take the time to properly relish the incredulous gasp, only clicks his fingers a second time, and this time it is a magical gag, that will secure the silence of his captive, who now can only stare at them, wide-eyed with fear.

When Blackwood turns around again, Coward has lowered his gaze, he stands meekly in front of the massive four-poster bed and bites his lip.

“I have been very patient with you, Daniel. Have I not allowed you all the liberties you desired? Laid the world at your feet?”

Coward nods sheepishly and still won't look at him.

“And this is how you repay me?”

A rueful shake of his head, scarcely perceivable.

“I think an apology is in order.”

Coward's eyes flick upwards to catch his meaning, only briefly; then he sinks to his knees in a graceful fluid motion.  
“Please forgive me, my lord”, he whispers, “I did not mean to disrespect you.”

“What were your intentions then, Daniel? To barter away something that is mine? – Did you let him fuck you?”

His gaze shoots upwards, terrified this time. “No!”, he exclaims, “I wouldn't! Of course not!”  
The light in his eyes is nearly swallowed by the utter blackness of his pupils.  
“You must believe me”, he pleads, “I have not been unfaithful. I just...”

“Just what, Daniel?”, Blackwood mocks, “Just entertained the thought? Just nursed the hope? Tell me, Daniel, how did you plan to betray me?” His voice has swollen to a thunder and Coward recoils under its ferocity. 

“Please, my lord, I only ever dream of your touch. There is nothing else I desire, I swear on my life, there isn't.”

“Oh, isn't he a pretty little liar?”, Blackwood says conversationally, half turning towards Raphael on his chair, who is shifting in his seat as much as his bonds will allow, “Doesn't he make one want to believe him? But I cannot leave such transgressions unpunished." Then he addresses Coward again: "Bring me my riding crop, Daniel.”

Coward flinches, but gets up without objection and retrieves the requested item, a marvellous piece, leather-braided with a hilt of silver. He kneels again before hands it over, presenting it like a sword. 

“Very good”, Blackwood says, “now undress.”

It is the first time Coward's eyes dart into Raphael's direction, and he hesitates. 

“Don't play shy now, Daniel. It is not like you would have denied him the sight of your naked body.” He taps the tip of the riding crop almost gently against his side. “Go on. Strip for us.”

Blackwood rests his hand on Raphael's shoulder as they watch Coward undress, and while can feel the man shiver under his touch, he also knows it's not only with fear, for Coward is truly delectable with his fair skin and the muscles like carved from marble, Apollo reborn.

“Isn't he perfect?”, Blackwood says lightly, “Doesn't he make you want to taste every bit of his flesh?”

The answer is on the very top of Raphael's mind – _Yes-yes-oh-god-yes_ – and Blackwood pats him approvingly for it. “I knew you'd appreciate this”, he says and steps forwards, trails the crop over the sensitive spot between Coward's neck and shoulder, traces the collarbone, teasing, while Coward trembles in anticipation, the pale gleam of his eyes barely contained by heavy lids, the stir of arousal obvious between his legs. Blackwood runs the crop over Coward's belly, over the angle of his hip bones, until Coward sucks in a breath and bites his lip to stifle the moan that is about to break from him inevitably with the next move, and then the tips dabs ever so softly at his hardening cock, stroking its length, lifting the blood-swollen flesh.

Coward opens his lips, the sound stolen away before it can escape him, the eyes fully closed now, reverent in his silence.

Blackwood is so pleased by this sight, he lacks the words to describe the feeling. Perhaps he could will the artist's mind to remember this picture, burn it to the retina of his eyes, to be replicated later into the most magnificent of paintings, but then he would have to blind him for it and take his hands for daring to match such beauty with the stroke of a brush. And Blackwood's brave new world cannot stand for such medieval punishments; it must strive for the betterment of men, not the waste of their talent.

Like Coward, who is not just beautiful in body and mind, but called to be a higher form of being, immaculate, flawless. And flawless he would be, were it not for the ugly mark at his neck, a decoration that could be so pretty, if delivered correctly, if it was a love bite instead of a blemish made by a greedy stray. Blackwood feels the righteous wrath bloom in his chest again at this unbecoming view, the despoilment of his Daniel, and this sentiment echoes only too clearly when he tells him to kneel and lean over.

“You understand why I must do this”, he asks before he brings down the crop for the first time, and Coward only nods. 

If it lies in the nature of perfection not to be increasable, Coward proves such judgement wrong – the glow brought about by the sharp blows of the crop, makes him even more divine, marvellous how he arches into the kiss of the whip, how he welcomes its bite, its sweet catharsis. And Blackwood lavishes its attention generously on Coward's back, on his arse, the back of his thighs, paints him pink, then red with pain until he trembles and sighs in the most fetching manner, then pulls him up by the hair, parading his wantonness, his fully erect, leaking cock to Raphael's eager eyes.

“Behold, Raphael. See him for what he is”, Blackwood says. He could mean anything: _Beautiful. Shameless. Whore. Angel._

And Raphael is appalled and mindlessly aroused and struggling against his bonds, struggling in vain, while Blackwood only chuckles at the ridiculousness of his efforts, settles on the edge of the bed just opposite him and turns Coward around, so he comes to kneel between his spread thighs. His eyes do not leave his captive as he indicates to Coward what he expects of him, and Coward sets to the task with fervour, peels Blackwood from his clothes like a prize, like an idol, like a god, and if there has been any doubt about his devotion, it is dissolved the moment his lips close around Blackwood's cock. He swallows him down, so so eager, so indifferent to the fact that the thick silky length is choking him, is pushing into his mouth too deep and too fast and too relentless, while he tries not to gag, tries to breathe, until he is coughing and gasping and drooling around it, tears welling up from his eyes, staining his cheeks, but he accepts the act as a cleansing, as atonement.

Blackwood is staring at Raphael in his bonds, who pants against the gag and twists uncomfortably in his seat, the outline of his erection apparent against the confinement of his trousers, he wants so much what he can never have, it fills Blackwood's senses like perfume, and he sees it in his mind that is bright, aflame with envy and burning need, and it's too good to end it like this.

“Enough”, he says, and “On the bed.” His own voice sounds strange in his ears, rough, almost feral, and Coward looks at him, as if he was he world, and nothing else mattered anymore, and does as he is ordered, sprawls out obediently on the mattress, lets his wrists be tied, without a sound of protest, only the breathless, soundless moan on his lips again, that now are red and plump and swollen from sucking his cock, so alluring, begging to be kissed, but Blackwood withstands the temptation.

He arranges Coward's legs, spreads him open in a way that leaves nothing to Raphael's imagination anymore, not the tender stretch of his inner thighs, not the hair-dusted plumpness of his balls, not the cock throbbing desperately, not the puckered velvety skin of his hole. Blackwood can sense Raphael's tension, when he places two oil-slick fingers against Coward's opening, can taste his dismay, his desire, and also the confusion about what he wants: to be in Blackwood's place or in Coward's, it all blurs, and then he pushes, and Coward moves to meet his thrust, his whole body curving, rearing up into the most graceful arc, and the sound that escapes him downright unholy, follow by little frantic moans and whimpers that accompany every stroke of Blackwood's fingers as they are fucking him open, brushing the tangled pleasure inside him, this utter twistedness of his soul. 

There is nothing that could be better, nothing but perhaps Blackwood's cock, so that's what Coward is begging for, in small words, that fall like shards from his lips, and broken, strangled moans, and distressed gasps, he pleads and whimpers, promises and curses, prays even, if only – if only his lord would consider to fuck him properly, allow him a taste of his gorgeous, his majestic, his wonderful cock, that would be so good and so right and so perfect. It is a litany of meaningless, obscene babble that in any other moment would have Raphael (and Coward) blushing with shame, but now it is just hot and arousing, and finally Blackwood has mercy on him and grants him his wish, and Coward is nearly sobbing at the sensation. 

All restraint flaking off, all coherency dissolving, he becomes but a bestial bundle of nerves, exposed to Blackwood's passion, that is sweeping across him like a storm of hell, drowning him in an ocean of stimuli, taking him apart, piece by piece by piece, until he is nothing but a twitching, twisting mess, so overwrought with sensation he begs for it to stop, to please, please let him come or let him go, release him, deliver him from this evil, and just then, as he is hovering on the cusp of madness, Blackwood bears down on him again, one last time, and he is done for, comes in an agony of bliss that swallows him up and drags him into oblivion.

The last thing Blackwood sees before coming himself is the gaping blackness of the faint spilling like ink in Coward's mind, a clear night sky he intends to spatter with the silvery seed of stars.

He waits for his breathing to calm before he sits up. For a moment he lets his gaze rest upon the scene in front of him: Coward's unconscious sprawl amidst rumpled sheets, the glow of his skin magnified by a thin sheen of sweat and adorned with the pearly drops of semen, how lovely he looks with his tousled hair, the swollen lips, his hole stretched open and dripping with his come, Blackwood cannot help the itch in his fingers to circle the sensitive rim, spread the fluid, or push it back into Coward's body, wants to fuck into him again, at first with his fingers, then later with his cock, again and again, until the sun comes up. It will be a glorious night.

He pauses, as if only now becoming aware of the spectator, then he turns, slowly.

Raphael is still tied to his chair, and if Coward is an image of debauchery, Raphael is a storybook-example for frustration: he is wound up so tight, Blackwood is certain one touch would undo him, he can see it in the feverish burning of his eyes, the tension in his limbs, the desperate hard-on pushing against the fabric of his trousers as if trying to break free from its prison.

He feels almost jovial as he addresses him.  
“There are countries in this world where the law of hospitality is regarded as paramount. A man would sooner die than let his guest come to harm, and I do admire them for the sublimity of their attitude. Now, I am not so generous – certainly, I have shared with you a taste of Daniel's sweetness, something no other soul has ever been privy to, but do not mistake my intentions. This shall have been the closest, you will ever come to taking your pleasure in him. If you try to put a finger on him ever again, your life will be forfeit. The same applies, if you ever set foot into my realm. I will not share what is mine. Now out of my sight, and quickly.”

He snaps his fingers again, and the magical bonds disappear in an instant; so does Raphael. He runs like his life depends on it, and well, apparently it does.

 

~curtain~


End file.
